A Last Goodbye
by V-rcingetorix
Summary: A eulogy for an old friend, taking place on a game we both loved. Names changed for their privacy.


The garden was filled with exotic plants, dark stone walls providing a solid backstop. A tree, shimmering in indefinable power, stood to one side while an ancient oak held its post as it had for uncounted ages. Between the two rested the entrance Portal, a place of Power. Its existence remained a mystery even to those who claimed mastery of such sorcery, transporting heroes and civilians alike miles apart, or sometimes through the dimensional boundaries of their very existence.

Gray stone walls created the limits of the garden. Bright flowers defied the gloom, expressing a fierce joy in their own existence without words. Gathered from the furthest reaches of Gielenor, their properties would have made any master gardener weep in envy; indeed, some were the very last examples of their kind. But their cheer failed to lift the spirits of the man standing to one side of the Portal.

He was a tall man, slim but wiry of build. His movements betrayed a certain grace, hinted origins only suggested by the slight point in his ears. Unlike his normal garments he wore pure black, unarmed in the center of his home. At one point he looked back at the far side of his mansion where a solemn dirge wound its way through the garden's foliage. Even the denizens of the garden, strange beasts few saw out in the world beyond, seemed to match its mood. In a motion that fit the moment, a raven soared down from above, landing on the man's shoulder before becoming motionless.

Something brought the man's attention upwards, to a certain point in the center of his domain.

The Portal swirled, unfathomable power coming to focus on an infinitesimal point, deep in the center of its miasma. It grew from a dark point into the shape of another man, transitioning from _nothing_ to _present_ in a stretch of time both less than a moment yet greater than what words could express.

"Zircon," the man stepped forwards. The two greeted each other in the traditional fashion, hands clasping forearm. "Thank you for coming."

The recent arrival heaved a sigh. He was an impressive man, tall and wide-shouldered. A blade of legendary origins rested at his side, sheathed in materials that somehow evaded the focus of any who observed. "Findel. How could I miss? I regret it is for such a reason as this."

"Still," the first man shrugged. "The others?"

"Will be here soon. Have any arrived?"

Findel nodded. "The Deacon of Blue is at the chapel; Crystal and the Reverend are there as well."

"Good. Sanic?" Zircon Primus shifted in place, tabard moving in the slight breeze.

"With Bean in the kitchens. Tahe and Scruffy decided to try tricking Buddy, Bunny and Barmy into drinking an entire keg of beer before the service."

A heartfelt groan emanated from somewhere around the larger man's toes. "I'll go stop them. Wait here for the others?"

Findel's sleeves came together, his entire form appearing to fade into the background. Looking on him, Zircon could well believe the former assassin's choice of occupation. "Of course. Patience is a virtue."

"Thank you." Cape swirling, Zircon left.

Once more, the man with pointed ears settled to wait. He could do no less.

Minutes passed, the doleful music playing in the background. Occasional footsteps of unseen creatures broke the quiet, but not enough to betray their position.

The waiting man inhaled deeply. An open window, leading to his mansion's kitchens, emanated the smells of exquisite cooking. Pungent odors, faded through the distance, created a mouthwatering scent. Already a trio of birds, red green and blue, sat on the window ledge. Their attention to the chef's actions bordered on manic, yet remained passive. It brought a small smile to Findel's face; his Godling Triplet loved food of every type. It brought memories back, when they were mere chicks bobbing around his ankles, cheeping for new foods.

Another sigh fought past his impressive self-control. His departed friend had taught such things; one need not feed pets solely the isolated diets shop owners demanded. And thus his trio of food critics had been born.

The Portal whirled again, this time firing out two forms in quick succession. One carried himself with the surety of a born ranger, longbow attached to his back in traditional fashion. The other bore the sigil of a chaotic neutral, one of the few who understood the balance between order and the Abyss.

"Preston, Flabber." Findel moved up, becoming visible.

One of the figures jumped, then swore. "Findel, sard you to the – nevermind. Don't _do_ that to us."

An eyebrow lifted. "Do what?"

The ranger muttered something under his breath. "Nevermind. Flabber, you alright?"

"Perfect," the strange man remained in a handstand, observing the world from an inverted position. "I like what you did to your hydrangeas, Findel. Have you been using a new fertilizer?"

Findel just stared at the man until he gave in, flipping to his feet. "Thank you. Dragon dung, yes. It seems to be working."

Chimes, the sound of little bells, punctuated by the deep tones of a massive bell caught their attention. The master of the mansion gestured. "At the chapel. It is almost time."

The other two straightened their clothing, nodding thanks as they went.

* * *

He came in at the last, letting the double doors close as silently as they'd opened. The music, faint from a distance, swelled into a crescendoing triumph inside. The acoustics reverberated the paean around the chamber, hard stone and soft wall-hangings alternating to blend the music into a glorious sound. If Findel listened, he could make out voices; a soft tenor contrasting with someone's deep bass. The combination built upon itself, rising to higher greatness, yet at the same time expressing sorrow deeper than the bottom of the sea – deeper even than the trans-dimensional rift he'd once encountered far below the splashing waves.

The music ended with a flourish, fading to silence. At the front of the chapel, the Deacon rose, turning to face the group.

"My friends. Comrades. Thank you for coming. We are here to celebrate the life of Volt of Mark, warrior and hero to Gielenor and beyond."

Turning, Findel could see the gathered heroes. Rarely had such a gathering been seen, and yet they had come together for one of their own. A tear appeared on several faces, discreetly wiped away, but not so swift as to remove its having been there in the first place.

"And who can recall the time when his Recipe for Disaster came to fruition?" The Deacon's words brought chuckles from the audience. "I believe that was the last time he was allowed near any kitchen whilst one of the Chamber yet drew breath."

"You know _that's_ right!" the familiar voice of chef Bean rose above the susurration.

Another member stood, Preston with his longbow still firmly attached. "Volt was a good friend. A good man, if of few words. But those words he did speak were encouraging, always uplifting those who fell."

"Aye," a man Findel couldn't see past a pillar rose to his feet. "A fellow of infinite jest was he. But fell in battle when his anger waxed hot. When evil seemed to triumph, and good men quavered, Volt always held his feet and stood ready."

The speeches went on, recounting the tasks Volt had accomplished. The conversations held with innumerable beings across the breadth and width of Gielenor, studying the secrets contained by the most powerful to the least. No corner had been left unexplored, yet new discoveries lay at what seemed to be a monthly basis. Yet Volt had journeyed through them all.

At last, the final member sat. The room held silence as the bells chimed. Each shimmering tone shook the floor, like the footsteps of a forgotten deity. But they remained still; each had seen the greatest monsters to have existed, from the dreaded Spider-God of the North to the horrors tethered deep under the earth. But for all that intrepid courage, the loss of one of their own struck a point no armor could cover.

As its last ringing tones sung out across the small realm, Findel stepped out of the shadows. "We have mourned our friend, Chamber of the Fell, and we will mourn him still. But now, let us celebrate his accomplishments – dragon bitter is on tap, and every dish our friend once loved."

"Aye," Zircon stood, cape fluttering dramatically. "Valhalla is fortunate to have such as he. And we? We shall see him again someday. Until that day. Skol!"

The returning shout made the windows shudder.


End file.
